


You Grew Up Good

by basicallymonsters



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Anal Sex, Denial of Feelings, Explicit Language, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Season 2, Sexual Content, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-04 01:28:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2904263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basicallymonsters/pseuds/basicallymonsters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey takes notice of Ian's increasing hotness upon his return from juvie - and accidentally lets it slip one hook up. Sex and teasing ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Grew Up Good

It's the second time they fuck that summer when Mickey really notices. 

He's stretched out, back arched over a smooth metal work bench and his hastily bunched jacket, his hands are clamped tight on Ian's biceps, squeezing with every forward thrust. His inked fingers look so good there, and he bites his lip and squints his eyes when Ian's arms tense and relax, the planes of his chest shifting, his head tilted back so all Mickey can see is the jut of his jaw for miles. 

It's when he's on his back that he can see how much Ian's grown up, how a few months in juvie were like the final flowering months Ian needed to turn into this adult, all hard lines and stretched limbs, his cropped shock of red hair and scattered freckle constellations so much less boyish now.

Ian makes a noise in the back of his throat, and hoists Mickey's dangling leg around his waist, and Mickey surrenders completely, keeping his bruising grip on Ian's arms but relaxing everything else, letting himself be pounded into the counter and biting off the threatening moans that claw at his throat. On the rare occasion that he lets them slip, Ian moans in response and doubles his efforts, sometimes muttering filthy things above him - but Mickey very rarely indulges in that weakness.

He's already letting him fuck him face to face, already so exposed, overpowered by this sudden hurricane of a man, no longer safe in his separation, his upper hand. He doesn't want to be a bitch, but sometimes he feels like he's completely open for Ian, especially when he's on his back like this, wanting to see more of him, always, wanting to look so he won't be tempted to touch, to kiss.

Ian never says anything when Mickey hooks a leg over his shoulder to bring him closer, or presses tender hands into his flesh, never questions the vulnerability because it's fleeting and perfect, and he could fuck him like this all day, watching him bite his lips red raw and clutching onto anything that'll keep him grounded.

"Take off your shirt." Mickey commands, and his voice - now allowed past his wrecked lips - flips up into a breathy gasp. Ian smirks down at him and stops moving, thrust all the way in. He rocks so slightly that Mickey's hands scrabble at his arms for purchase, hissing through his teeth at the near constant pressure on his prostate.

"Dickbag, just take off your fucking shirt." he growls. Ian's still smirking, the bastard, but his face is tinged with confusion.

"What, you want a strip tease now? You were like .5 seconds from blowing." He says. Mickey punches him in the arm, hard, and Ian pulls half way out in surprise. They groan in unison, Ian clutching at his bicep.

"Okay! shirt gone, you fucking psychopath." He tugs the shirt over his head and balls it up, aiming it for Mickey's head. He dodges, and tries for a satisfied smile, but it fractures and drops open when his eyes fall to wiry muscle, smooth skin, a sheen of sweat. His hands go to Ian's chest instinctively, like a parched man in the desert, faced with a beautiful mirage. 

He traces the sides of his torso so lightly, and Ian studies his face longingly for a moment before thrusting back in suddenly, drawing one of those accidental moans from Mickey's chest. He drives into Mickey at a punishing pace, and Mickey's fascinated with the mechanism of it all, the perfect slide of muscle, of in and out, and he finds himself running his hands over Ian's torso again, half cursing, half praising the number puberty had done on him.

"You grew up so good." He mutters, and it's like he wasn't quite aware he'd said it out loud. Ian's so surprised that his pace slows by half, and Mickey wriggles down onto his cock to get his attention back where it belongs.

"Fuckin hands on deck, Gallagher." He says more strongly, and Ian flushes even more, picking up the slack. He starts jerking Mickey off for good measure, thumb rubbing over the head of his dick, and then twisting down over and over. Mickey arches into the table, letting out tiny, barely suppressed sounds, and Ian loses it, leaning in to suck bruises into his clavicle and down his chest, muttering curses into warm skin. His hand gets sloppy at the new angle, hips stuttering out of control, but Mickey's so close that it doesn't matter - the messy, multiple stimulations getting him even hotter. 

He comes suddenly, tightening his legs around Ian's back and spilling between their sweat sticking chests. Ian fucks him through it, folded over his body, mouthing hot and open over his chest as he thrusts shallowly to lazy orgasm, collapsing for just a second over Mickey's lax form. He knows he'll be kicked up and out in a second, Mickey proclaimed "girly" emotions flapping behind him in the wind.

Sure enough, Mickey shoves him away a minute later, scooting upwards, and yanking his pants over his hips. When he's covered though, he looks at Ian, fumbling with his belt buckle, and looking down with embarrassed red stained cheeks and shaking hands. He yanks him back in by the hips and does the buckle up for him, gazing up through hooded eyes and purposefully grazing his dick with every movement. 

It's as romantic as it gets, and Ian finds himself unsure of where to put his hands. It's over in a second though, and though it's a little too still, a little awkward, there's a buzz of renewed confidence to both of them.

"So… I grew up good?" Ian asks, coy smile transforming his face, and he looks like he did the first time they fucked a year ago, hopeful and young.

"Shut the fuck up Gallagher, I'm not responsible for what I say when your dick's in my ass okay?" he says, but he's blushing just a little.

"Yeah, okay." Ian grins, and Mickey kicks him in the shin.

"You just improved from that fuckin' scrawny freckle-faced alien runt, and that's not saying much." Mickey says, lighting a cigarette with a flick of his wrist, and avoiding eye contact. Ian's still smiling, undeterred, and he leans up against the counter, bumping Mickey's shoulder with his.

"Admit it, I'm your fucking wet dream." Ian teases.

Mickey shoves himself upright and away.

"In your goddamn dreams." he spits, sneering. Ian just laughs and Mickey's shoulders deflate a little. 

He can't seem to intimidate this kid anymore.

"Whatever Mick." And he heads for the door. Mickey's heart lurches for a second, like it's being pulled by Ian's retreating back. 

"You're-" he starts, and curses under his breath when Ian turns back around to face him.

"You're hot okay? Jesus." His cigarette wags around the admission, and he still can't meet his eyes. He senses Ian walking slowly back towards him and suddenly he's being grabbed by the ass and hoisted back onto the bench.

"You too." Ian murmurs into the skin of his neck, and Mickey pretends not to hear, yanking him closer by the hair and closing his eyes.

Ian sucks at his jaw, and Mickey tells himself that he didn't just want to keep Ian in their bubble in the back room for a minute longer, tells himself that the too fast beat of his heart is just leftover from the sex, tells himself that he wouldn't chase this feeling like a fucking addiction.

Ian smirks against his clavicle, and knows better.

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to see a proper reaction to Ian's like, superb puberty. Kudos and comments give me life, thanks for reading friends. <3


End file.
